


let's say, for instance

by nightwideopen



Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Bonding over trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Deaf Clint Barton, Established Relationship, Human Disaster Clint Barton, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Post-Avengers (2012), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), The Avengers Hate Magic, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 06:32:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17054942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightwideopen/pseuds/nightwideopen
Summary: Clint pushes himself into a sitting position despite everything in his body telling him not to. “Can someone,” he growls, “Tell me what the fuck is going on?”Something tickles his left hand where it’s splayed out on the floor of the roof, and he snatches it back. That better not have been a bug. When he snaps his head towards the offending sensation, all he sees is feathers. The further he turns his head, the more feathers he sees, until an entire wing is staring back at him.Oh man, please don’t be connected.





	let's say, for instance

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO. This is my first Winterhawk fic! Look what's been done to me! I love writing Clint and his mess of a self, I identify with it immensely. And I love Bucky being soft and kind and also a total badass. Also I'm the biggest sucker for wingfic and there aren't enough so I had to take it upon myself to write one.
> 
> I hope you all like it!!!!!! Please check out all the beautiful wing!Clint [art](https://nightwideopen.tumblr.com/tagged/re:%20wingclint)
> 
> the working title for this was "wingterhawk" which was a pun that i couldn't resist making

“Oh man, that was such a good shot. Did anybody see that?”

Clint takes a moment to replay it in his head. He’s awesome. He’s so awesome. Three arrows, six robots, and one perfect gust of wind. That’s a Hawkeye kind of recipe.

Steve answers first. “We’re a little busy!”

This is a relatively easy mission, something that required only four of them to head out. The bots aren’t coming fast enough and not even Clint is winded. Someone had to have seen it.

“Don’t worry, I saw.”

Clint breaks into a grin at the sound of Bucky’s voice over the comms. 

“You’re the only person I can count on, Barnes. Team of traitors, is what the rest of you are.”

“We get it,” Tony says. “Love of your life and all that jazz, but can we finish this up sometime within the next hour maybe? I have a dinner reservation.”

Clint rolls his eyes, sends two exploding-tip arrows, and wipes out what appears to be the last wave of annoying-as-fuck robots coming his way. They’re not even putting up a fight, just hurling themselves at whoever’s closest like they were designed for suicide missions. It’s boring. Clint takes a moment to admire Bucky, who’s not far from him, fighting his way through his own mob. It’s like a training session for the four of them. He smiles. If there’s anyone more awesome than him, it’s Bucky. Bucky, who’s turning to him with wide eyes and a panicked expression. 

“Oh for God’s _sake_ , Barton! Look out!”

Clint whips his head around just in time to see a blast of blue light headed his way. He means to leap out of the way just in time, he really does; it’s supposed to be a dramatic display of his impeccable reflexes and agility. But he freezes. He actually freezes. And the blast hits him right in the stomach, sending him hurtling through the air. Everything moves in slow motion after his feet come off the ground. God, where did that come from? Pain blooms at the back of his head as he’s slammed into the cement wall behind him. Oh good, a concussion. 

The last thing he hears before he blacks out is Bucky grumbling above him. Something about, “Clint, for the love of _fuck_ you are such a fucking disaster.”

 

When Clint swims into consciousness up he’s weirdly surprised to find Bucky at his bedside. But he’s only surprised for a moment. He quickly remembers the harsh talking to that Bucky gave him the last time he was this badly injured. Something about _shut the fuck up you’re more than worth my time and you don’t get to decide otherwise or tell me how I feel about you_. It was nice. They went for ice cream afterwards.

Bucky’s reading something on his phone and doesn’t notice Clint opening his eyes. Clint tries to talk but it comes out as more of a halfhearted groan than anything. His hearing aids are out, so it’s probably louder than he means it to be, too. 

Bucky moves immediately, his face torn between relief and anger – the usual. 

_Hi,_ he signs. _Water? Be right back._

Clint nods, smiling dopily as Bucky stumbles out of the room. He really, really has the best boyfriend. Or maybe he just gets seriously injured far too much. He’s the only one on the team with a post-hospitalization routine: water, gentle scolding about being careful, kisses, come off the morphine, coffee coffee coffee, more kisses, sleep, wake up from the nightmare, coffee, hide on the roof until Bucky finds him with pizza and Lucky in tow.

Bucky wastes no time, getting right to it as soon as Clint’s hearing aids are tucked into his ears.

“What were you thinking?” 

Clint really hates this bit. “Got distracted.” 

“C’mon.” Bucky scoffs. “You know better than that.”

“I’m serious! It wasn’t a high level threat and you look hot when you’re tearing badly made robots to pieces like it’s nothing. I thought it was over.” 

Bucky stares at him blankly.

“Okay, fine, I froze. Sue me.” Clint shrugs, sips at his water. “Do you know what I was hit with? The bots weren’t armed and it came out of nowhere.”

“No, we don’t know yet. Now we gotta chase down the asshole all over again because _someone_ had to rush to your side after you were hit.” Bucky laughs. “I’m the someone, by the way. I guess we both fucked up.”

“Eh. Maybe you more than me.”

They smile at each other for one nauseatingly wonderful moment before Bucky climbs into the bed with him. Ah, kisses. Right on schedule.

•

The nightmare comes right on schedule, too. It wakes Bucky up, but he doesn’t say anything, just lets Clint climb over him out of the bed. Clint grabs a hoodie on the way out, leaving his hearing aids out but shoving them in his pocket for later.

Once he gets to the roof, Clint looks out over the large expanse of _nothing._ He really misses the Tower, like, a ridiculous amount. Maybe he and Bucky should take the dog back to Brooklyn for a bit. Suddenly he becomes aware of the ache in his back. The morphine must’ve finally worn off. He twists his body, trying to shake it off. Even when he dislocates his shoulders it doesn’t hurt this bad. It’s under his skin, like his bones are trying break right through it. It’s such a terribly unique and unfamiliar sensation that Clint doesn’t know what to do with it. He leans over the side of the roof, trying to find any position that’ll give him some relief. But it just seems to be getting worse. With every second that passes, with every inch that the sun climbs into the sky, Clint wants to scream.

Eventually, he does. The pain gets sharper after a bit, like his bones are actually breaking through the skin of his shoulders. It quite literally feels as though his scapulae have sharpened themselves and started to elongate right out of his back. 

Clint falls to the floor, and he knows he’s screaming but he can’t hear it because his aids are still in his pocket. He’s sweating terribly and tears his hoodie over his head, pulling it to his face and biting the purple fabric between his teeth. He doesn’t know where this pain is _coming from._

He misses Bucky bursting through the door to the roof because of course he’s deaf as well as incapacitated. FRIDAY probably alerted him that Clint is in distress, bless her AI heart. Clint fumbles for his hearing aids, not sure if he can manage to sign anything coherent with how badly his whole body is shaking. He drops them, groans in frustration, but doesn’t put up a fight when Bucky tucks them into his ears for him and turns them on. 

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong? What’s wrong, talk to me.”

Bucky sounds so horribly panicked and Clint wants to feel bad but he feels the same way.

“I don’t know I don’t _know_ it’s my–” The pain sharpens again and he can’t help the shout that’s ripped from him. “It just _hurts_ , Bucky help. Please, _please_.”

He’s probably giving Bucky one hell of a scare, writhing around in the roof in the middle of the night – morning now – but for once it’s warranted. He wants to feel guilty because he knows how fragile Bucky already thinks he is but he honestly feels like he’s being torn in half from the inside out and he really doesn’t see it ending any time soon. 

“Stay with me, it’s alright. We’ll get you help. You– _shit_ you’re bleeding. Shit, fuck, what the fuck.”

Bleeding? How is he bleeding? Is something _actually_ tearing out of him? Is this some sort of _Aliens_ shit? 

Clint’s last thought before it all comes to a head is _please don’t let it be some sort of_ Aliens _shit._ He can actually feel the moment his flesh tears, and he lets out a scream to match it. He’s barely aware of Bucky reeling back, frightened of whatever has happened. Clint wants to know, wants ask _what the fuck is going on?_ But blackness creeps around his vision until he’s taken under completely.

 

Clint startles awake none-too-gently to the sound of Bucky shouting his name. The desperately distraught tone of his voice sends Clint into a blind panic, before everything comes rushing back to him. Immediately, the pain makes itself known again. It’s not half as bad as it was before he lose consciousness, edging just on this side of an ache that’s enough to keep him trembling. 

He’s still lying on his stomach on the roof. He must not have been out for long.

“Buck– Bucky.”

Bucky’s hands are on him almost immediately, petting as his hair. “Hey, _hey_ , are you with me? God– FRIDAY, are they almost here yet?”

“They’re coming through the door now.”

Clint hears Natasha first, but he doesn’t know if that’s because she speaks first or if it’s because she’s the closest. 

“Clint? Can you say something? Do you know where you are?”

Clint opens his eyes. He didn’t even realize he’d had them shut so tight. The sun burns his eyes for a moment before everything comes fading into focus. He sees Nat, on her knees in front of him with more concern on her face than he’s seen since that time he almost died for real in Prague. Then he sees Bucky, kneeling next to her, arms stained with blood up to his elbows, his white t-shirt soaked in it. 

“Whose blood–” Shit, it had to be his. “Am I still in New York? Is it still the 21st century? I didn’t time travel, right? That shit is so messy.”

“He’s fine,” Natasha says with a roll of her eyes.

Bucky’s eyes, on the other hand, nearly bulge out of his head. “He’s clearly not _fucking fine_ , look at this!”

Look at _what?_ “What are you talking about?”

“Right,” Tony says, long and drawn out – oh good, he’s here for the show as well. “Which one of us is gonna tell him about that? I vote not me.”

Tell him about _what?!_ “Can you tell me what the f–”

“Me neither,” Natasha says quickly.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, you’re all terrible.” Bucky sounds borderline hysterical. “Can you get an actual doctor up here? Or help me get him to medical? Something other than pretend that this is _fine_?”

Clint pushes himself into a sitting position despite everything in his body telling him not to. “Can _someone_ ,” he growls, “Tell me what the fuck is going on?”

Something tickles his left hand where it’s splayed out on the floor of the roof, and he snatches it back. That better not have been a bug _._ When he snaps his head towards the offending sensation, all he sees is feathers. The further he turns his head, the more feathers he sees, until an entire _wing_ is staring back at him.

Oh man, please don’t be connected.

Clint jerks around where he’s sitting, trying to get a better view, but the wing keeps moving with him. Then he looks to his right and sees another one. He probably looks ridiculous, whipping his head back and forth, but _what the fuck is going on?_ Clint knows he should be scared or confused or feeling some kind of emotion that makes sense. But all that bubbles to the surface with the realization that he’s suddenly sprouted a pair of brown and red wings is unfiltered rage that he would usually laugh off but can’t.

“Surely weirder things have happened,” Tony reasons.

Clint wants to scream. He feels his face turn red as he tries to hold it back. 

“Oh I’m sure this would be just fine if something grew out of your back! Let’s see how you’d handle it! What the fuck–!? Bucky.” He desperately turns to Bucky, who looks as spooked as Clint feels. “Bucky, what the hell happened?” His voice is nearly a whine but he doesn’t have the energy to feel embarrassed about it.

Bucky just shakes his head. Now he just looks sad, and Clint hates that face. 

“Come on,” he pushes himself to his feet and reaches out a hand. “Let’s get you to medical, make sure you’re okay. Then we’ll get you cleaned up and figure it out. It’s gonna be fine.”

Everything’s hazy enough that Clint doesn’t feel like fighting. He takes Bucky’s hand and lets himself get dragged to the land of poking and prodding. 

It takes three sets of hands to keep him steady and get him there. Bucky keeps grumbling and Tony won’t stop _talking._ Clint wishes he had the energy to tell him to shut the hell up.

The doctors that work at the compound know that they have five minutes to assess Clint for injuries before they absolutely have to pass him over to Bucky. He can’t take very long with everyone’s hands on him, which is unfortunate considering how often he gets hurt. Luckily it only takes about two minutes for them to see that he’s not hurt beyond where the wings broke through his skin and they send him off in record time with a goody bag of painkillers, gauze, and disinfectant. It’s not anything that Bucky doesn’t already keep under the sink in the bathroom of their suite, but hey, it’s the thought that counts. 

Everything starts to blend together and Bucky’s sounds like he’s talking through water. He probably lost a lot of blood out on the roof and he hasn’t eaten all day. God, Bucky is going to really lose it with him once he’s fully lucid again. He doesn’t even let Clint say hi to Lucky before ushering him over to the bed. 

“Please just lie down. For once in your life.”

The last thing Clint sees before his vision fades out again is Bucky frowning worse than he was that time Clint tied all his shoes together as a form of flirting.

 

This time, Clint wakes up to the smell of coffee right under his nose and it’s the best thing he’s smelt all day. He keeps his eyes shut, because maybe if he doesn’t look everything will stay the same. Maybe he wasn’t hit with a magical blast of garbage that made wings grow out of his back and made his boyfriend all worried.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Please wake up.”

“I’m up.” He sits up, so so carefully and everything still hurts but he’s up. “I was dreaming right? It was a dream.”

Clint opens his eyes to Bucky sitting next to him on the bed. He shakes his head, silently hands Clint the cup of coffee. 

“No. Sort of wish you were. Hate seeing you like that.”

He knows this, Clint _knows_ this. He knows this so intimately in all the ways that Bucky has told him so and he’s done his best to keep it from happening and… God, if he’d just used his _head–_

Bucky nudges Clint with his elbow, metal hitting flesh. “Stop that. And don’t you dare apologize. It’s no one’s fault. We’ll figure it out.”

Clint reaches out hesitantly, lets his fingers gently skitter over the plates of Bucky’s left arm all the way up to his shoulder until he can wrap his arm around him fully. He uses his height to his advantage, tucking Bucky into his side and doing his best to apologize without using words. It’s still kind of his fault, _kind of_. He should’ve been paying attention. Bucky resigns to it, resting his head on Clint’s chest and breathing a sigh of relief as he wraps his own arms around Clint’s waist. He’s blaming himself too, Clint can just tell. Aren’t they a pair. 

“I’m okay,” Clint says. “It really really hurt, but I’m okay now. Plus, coffee. I’m totally fine. It’s just… weird.”

“Weird sounds about right. I went to go check on the cuts – where they broke out from you know? – and it was already healed. It’s like, scarred, kind of like my arm, but completely closed up for the most part.”

Clint suddenly becomes very aware of the place where the wings – _his_ wings – are joint to his body. But it doesn’t so much feel like they’re connected as it does an extension of his shoulders. Like arms. He’s aware of every inch of them, can feel where the feathers are brushing against the sheets, the wall, Bucky’s back. He thinks very hard about it, and suddenly the wings jolt. 

Bucky jumps. So does Clint.

“ _Jesus_. You did that?”

Clint nods. “I guess so. I didn’t mean to.” He takes a few gulps of coffee, lets it burn his throat. “This is so fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “Breakfast?”

“ _Please._ ”

•

“Can you feel this?”

“Yeah.”

“How about this?”

“Yes.”

“Here?”

It was fine when it was just Natasha, curiously skirting her delicate fingers across the underside of one wing where the primary feathers meet the secondary ones. But then without Bucky pasted to Clint’s side like the guard dog Tony treated him as, the rest of them thought _now’s my chance_. They don’t get it, they’ve tried to understand and have been accommodating to the best of their ability but they’ll never really understand just how suffocating all of their hands on Clint are. He’s starting to panic, he can tell by the way his lungs can’t take in as much air as usual. He’s two seconds from flinging himself off of the couch just so they _stop touching him_. And it wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t so overly aware of every fiber and skin cell that comes in contact with his feathers. But he is, so it is, and it’s making him extremely uncomfortable.

“Could you guys just–” Clint waves a hand in a way that hopefully indicates that he wants them to disperse.

“But can we–” Tony starts.

“ _No_ ,” Bucky cuts him off sharply. None of them had noticed his return, and they all whip their heads around at the demanding tone of his voice. Clint’s got his own personal knight in shining armor. “That’s enough. He’s not your fucking science project or your zoo exhibit or your goddamn toy. Just leave him alone already.” He turns to Clint. “You don’t have to let them. Come on.” Then he’s gone without even checking to see if Clint will follow. 

They all know that he will. 

Clint gives a cursory glance back at Steve and Natasha at least before following Bucky. He nearly loses him a few times, but it’s obvious where he’s going and Clint doesn’t stop until he’s reached the roof. Bucky’s already sat with his feet dangling off the ledge, hands clenched into fists at his sides. 

“You okay?” Clint asks once he’s close enough. It’s windy. Bucky nods. “Thanks for that. Was starting to feel– well, you know.”

Clint winces at his choice of words as Bucky swings his feet over the ledge to face him. He puts his hands on the back of Clint’s neck and pulls him closer. Clint trips, as per usual, catching himself with his hands on Bucky’s hips. It’s all very domestic. Except they’re on the roof of a communal superhero safe house and Clint has grown wings and they’re probably going to talk about their trauma now. 

“I do know,” Bucky says. Definitely talking about their trauma. “And it’s not fair, your body being altered against your will. It took them all long enough to stop asking about my arm, for Tony to stop asking if he could fix it, for Steve to stop looking at _me_ like I’d turned into a goddamn half-man half-lizard or something. They’re not gonna do that to you. I won’t let them. No tinkering, no twenty questions. You got enough to deal with by having those things and God help me if I have to knock Steve’s teeth out I will.”

Clint’s thumbs gratefully dig into the flesh of Bucky’s hips on their own accord. Really, he has nothing to do with it. The earnest look in Bucky’s eyes has _nothing_ to do with it.

“Only Steve?” Clint asks with a smirk. He’s only making a joke so he doesn’t do something stupid like cry. 

“Maybe Stark too. He could just buy new ones.”

Clint falls further into Bucky’s arms, noses into his neck and breathes him in like it's the last thing he’ll ever do. This hardcore, brainwash victim, deadly assassin and former Soviet weapon makes his mess of a broken and mended heart all kinds of soft. 

“Thanks. Really. You’re still the only one who gets it.”

“We have far too much in common now, Barton. It almost comes across as you trying to steal my thunder.”

Clint scoffs and pulls back. He wants to fire back with something sarcastic but his wings flap happily. And… wow they’re total traitors and are going to give him away. “Jeez, they don’t mind at all, do they? Shouldn’t I be able to control them?”

Bucky shrugs. “You wanna find out?”

•

It takes a week for Clint to gain control over his wings. He figures out that if he wants them to extend, the movement has to start in his collarbones and go through his shoulders. It’s almost like puffing his chest out, but he doesn’t want to look ridiculous by actually doing that, so he keeps it small and subtle. Then he figures out that if he wants to draw them in he has to carefully roll his shoulders forward, let the movement start at the ends of his wings and propel inwards. He can’t control them past that, but he can feel a whole lot, and Bucky has taken to brushing his fingers over his feathers so that they twitch and flutter. It’s reflex, responding to Bucky’s touch, involuntary but not at all in a bad way. 

“You know they’re hawk wings, right?” Bucky asks without looking up from his phone. 

Clint is still trying to figure out how to isolate one wing’s movements from the other’s. “They’re what?”

“Hawk wings. Red-tailed hawk, actually. Look.”

Bucky pushes himself off of the couch and drops himself on the bed next to Clint, pushing his phone until Clint’s hands. On the screen are several photos of this so called Red-tailed hawk, with wings that do in fact look exactly like Clint’s.

“I hate magic,” he says, giving Bucky’s phone back.

“We’re gonna figure it out.”

Clint shrugs. “You wanna go shoot stuff and pretend we’re mentally stable?”

“As long as you haven’t figured out how to use those things to cheat yet.”

•

Luckily they haven’t had a call since the whole _Clint grew wings because he’s an idiot_ fiasco started, so they’re all able to sleep in. Natasha and Sam have been coming and going trying to track down whoever blasted Clint and Tony probably hasn’t been sleeping anyway because, well, he’s Tony. Clint and Bucky have had their usual amount of sleep, which is as much as they can manage before a nightmare gets them. Clint’s have been worse lately, jacked up by the vivid memory of having been knocked off his feet so recently, but so have Bucky’s. Clint can’t imagine what kind of mess his bloody, unconscious body on the roof might have stirred up in Bucky’s head. But they haven’t talked about it, even with all the waking time they spend together. 

Clint wakes up to the bathroom light shining in his eyes. A cursory glance at the digital clock on the wall tells him that it’s barely past three. They had only just fallen asleep about an hour ago. At least Clint had, but only because he’d been sure that Bucky was asleep.

He pops a hearing aid in as he gets out of bed to investigate. He’s met with the unmistakable sound of scissors snipping away and he really hopes that Bucky’s not cutting his hair. It’s short enough and Clint was kind of hoping he’d grow it out again. 

“Bucky?”

Bucky doesn’t seem to hear him, and when Clint catches sight of him all he sees is a mess of purple, white, and black fabric all around him. He appears to have taken the scissors to all of Clint’s t-shirts. 

“Aw, not my shirts. Bucky? Are you okay?”

“What?” When Bucky looks up at him he looks perfectly lucid, perfectly fine and perfectly Bucky. “Oh, no it’s not what you think. I’m fine. I was just… you haven’t worn a shirt in a week and like. It’s getting distracting.”

Clint snorts and hops onto the counter. “Really? You’re solving my shirtless problem by destroying all of my shirts? Plus, I don’t know if you’ve noticed but it would’ve been kind of hard to get one on, considering.” He flutters his wings, just to remind Bucky that they’re there. 

Bucky groans, rubbing his face with his left hand. “No, I know that. Look.” He picks up one of Clint’s shirts from a neatly folded pile beside him and presents it to him. When the white fabric unfurls, Clint immediately sees the two holes on the back. That’s where his wings would go. Above and beneath the holes are strips of black. Bucky puts the shirt on his lap and pulls the strips apart. It’s velcro, and comes apart easily. “See?”

Clint’s heart does a funny thing where it nearly stops beating and then starts beating way too quickly. Bucky took it upon himself to try and solve a problem before Clint could even get upset about it. He probably would have. He’d have probably reached into his closet and tried to pull on a shirt and gotten stuck and had a panic attack and then been angry at whoever did this to him. But Bucky is here, in the middle of the night, mending his clothes so that they fit his new body. So yeah, maybe Clint loves him a hell of a lot. 

Bucky shoots him a soft smile and that’s all the cue Clint needs to throw himself to the floor and wrap his arms around Bucky. Not one single person in the whole world has shown Clint so many unconditional kindnesses, has ever gone out of their way to prevent Clint’s discomfort and anxiety. He can’t help but squeeze him tight and hope that that’s enough to say _thank you_.

“You’re the best.”

Bucky hugs him back just as strongly. “I know.”

And Clint doesn’t know how he did it, but when Bucky helps him into his shirt and straps the velcro carefully around his wings, it’s a perfect fit. 

•

They do get called out eventually, and Clint has to stay behind. It’s maddening, worse than being forced to stay back when he’s injured. He’s perfectly fine, see, and can do his job _just fine_. If anything, these wings have made him better, stronger. He has them under control for the most part, but one stern look from Natasha has him absolutely certain that he’s not going to get to tag along on a technicality. 

So he takes it out on the targets in the range. He loses track of time there, and he doesn’t know how long it is until his arms start aching. Clint takes a bath – because as big as their suite shower is it still isn’t big enough for his wings – and takes longer than usual. He watches a movie, gets restless, takes Lucky for a long, long walk until the sun sets and finally perches himself on the roof with a cup of coffee, hoping that the others will be back soon. 

He’s flat on his stomach – because he can’t lie on his back anymore – with Lucky sprawled across his legs when the roof door bangs open. Man, he was just starting to fall asleep. 

“Hey!”

It’s Natasha. 

“Hey, welcome back,” he says with a sleepy smile. “How’d it go? Everyone okay?”

“Everyone’s fine. Guess who’s looking for you.”

Clint hums. “Of course he is. He didn’t think to check here? Jeez.”

“He’s a little banged up. Want me to send him up or are you coming down?”

“Send him up. Tell him to bring me a shirt and a blanket, it’s freezing up here.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Yes, your highness.”

Bucky comes up about an hour later, freshly showered and carrying an entire picnic basket along with several blankets. 

“Aw, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“It’s summer,” Bucky says with a shrug. “Might as well take advantage.”

Clint takes note of the healing cuts and scrapes on Bucky’s face and arm. They were probably deeper before, but Bucky’s accelerated healing isn’t an exact science so there’s no way for Clint to know. Bucky sure as hell isn't going to tell him. 

“You okay? And you have to be honest.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You don't get to use that again for at least another month.” But he resigns to the request. “It was… pretty bad. Bombs kept going off. And shrapnel is, you know, annoying. One building fell. On me. It honestly could’ve been worse but I’m okay now. Just a rib or two. Should be all healed by morning.”

Clint steps into his space and gives him a moment to reel back if he needs to. He doesn’t, so Clint rewards him for his honesty with a kiss.

Bucky laughs into it. “Thanks.”

Clint runs a hand through Bucky’s wet hair. “No problem. Wanna set up camp now?”

Bucky nods before he helps Clint into a shirt. Then he pours them coffee from a thermos while Clint arranges the blankets into the corner of the roof. Lucky tries to tuck himself into it but they manage to hold him back long enough for them settle into a comfortable position. He flops into Bucky’s legs after Clint has settled on his stomach, chin on Bucky’s chest. He’s full of warm coffee and endless affection and it may not be the most comfortable place to sleep, but they’ve both had worse and Clint doesn’t mind it one bit, so long as they’re all together. 

 

Clint wakes up with a neck ache to rival all neck aches. Fuck all that sappy shit, they should’ve went to bed. Jesus fucking hell dammit. Why can’t he sleep on his _back_ – 

He gets up and stretches. Everything still a little sensitive around where the wings broke free, and the skin pulls a bit when he reaches down to touch his toes. His neck protests the moment he tries to turn it. Oh good, it’s going to be that kind of day.

Clint takes the thermos of coffee with him when he hangs his feet over the rooftop. As he sips at the cold liquid and watches the sunrise he thinks that maybe this wing thing isn’t so bad. It hasn’t changed things much, except made Bucky slightly more protective and made everyone look at him a bit more. But they were already looking. And Bucky was already so fierce in his loyalty. Clint is the same way with him. He doesn’t know if Nat and Sam are any closer to finding out who did this, and even then if they find him, who knows if they’ll be able to reverse it. Clint isn’t sure he’d want them to.

Clint’s legs go a bit numb, and he stands on the ledge to stretch them. The view gets slightly better; he can actually see over the tops of the trees now. It’s nice for a moment, peaceful. The wind ruffles his hair gently, like it doesn’t want to disturb him. But as all good things do, the moment comes to an end when a hand on his lower back startles him. Clint whips his head around, and his neck protests terribly. The jolt of pain sends him keeling over, losing his footing, and suddenly he’s falling off the roof.

Yeah, it’s definitely going to be that kind of day. 

Clint braces himself for an impact that never comes. When he opens his eyes, he’s suspended in midair, and only then does he become aware of his wings actually keeping him from plummeting to earth. The skin of his back twinges at holding his weight, but for the most part, his wings are flapping strongly. He’s fucking _flying._

When he looks up he sees Bucky hanging over the edge of the roof, expression slightly frantic, mostly relieved, and a lot curious.

_What the hell!?_ he signs as he says it.

Clint shrugs, probably unable to keep his own shock off of his face. _Instinct?_ he signs back. _That could have gone bad._

_You think?_

The problem is. Clint doesn’t know how to move. 

_Can you send Sam or someone to come get me? I literally have no idea how I’m doing this._

Bucky scrubs at his face with both hands. _You’re a mess. Try to stay put. I’ll be right back._

Clint waits for all of two minutes before he gets bored. He tries to tune into the motions that his wings are going through, tries to adjust them slightly. But they stop, and suddenly he’s falling again. His instinct must take over again because his wings keep flapping and he stays in the air. It’s still too far for him to just drop into the bushes, but now he’s too far from the rooftop ledge for anyone to reach down and get him. Jesus Christ, Barton. 

He feels something hit his foot. When he looks down, Sam, Steve and Bucky are peering up at him. Sam has wings on and signs to him, _I’m coming up_.

Clint nods. Then Sam is in front of him, handing him his hearing aids. 

“Thanks.”

“Any time. You really don’t know how you’re doing this?”

Clint shrugs. “I tried to figure it out and I started falling again. How do your wings work?”

“Very differently. I’ll tell you when we get back down there. You wanna stop flapping so I can catch you?”

It takes several moments before Clint can get his wings back under his control. His whole body jolts as he falls, then again when Sam catches him. Sam deposits him safely into Bucky arms.

“Hi there,” Clint says, bopping him on the nose.

Bucky drops him flat on his ass. “You’re a fucking asshole, Barton. Falling off the roof. Are you _joking_?”

•

Sam teaches him how to fly. It starts off as somewhat of a joke, because the manual mechanics of Sam’s wings are indeed very different to the sometimes involuntary reactions of Clint’s own. He falls from midair several times, and Steve has to take Bucky inside so he can unclench his jaw before his teeth break. 

But it ends up fine, and soon he’s soaring beside Sam, up over the trees. With time he grows confidence to actually throw himself off the roof, sure that he’ll catch himself. He always does. It feels like freedom. 

He learns how to shoot from the air. And he never misses.

“You coming down for dinner?” Bucky calls up to him. 

Clint nosedives from the air and drops himself right in front of Bucky, pretending to lose his balance so he can stumble into Bucky’s arms. 

“You gonna make me?”

“I don’t have to. We’re having Thai.”

Bucky turns around and leaves his back as an open invitation. Clint takes it, wrapping his thighs around Bucky’s waist and draping himself over his shoulders. For someone who can fly, he sure does enjoy a good piggyback ride. He presses a kiss to Bucky’s neck as he walks, just to watch Bucky’s face scrunch up into a giggle. 

Happiness looks good on him. Clint knows that won’t ever change.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post](https://nightwideopen.tumblr.com/post/181223560839/lets-say-for-instance-by-nightwideopen-clint)


End file.
